Multiple Identities
by corneroffandom
Summary: When the machine begins picking up some strange results, Reese sees another side to the world that he never would've imagined.


"Mr. Reese, we have a problem." He pauses mid-step to his car, frowning as the older man's voice, which has steadily become a semi-regular, comfortable buzzing in the back of his mind for the last few months, breaks into his concentration.

"What is it, Finch?"

"I'd rather show you."

Reese sighs, reluctantly giving up his plans to meet up with Fusco for an update on business around the bureau, and backtracks to the library that Finch operates the machine from. "What's the problem, Harold?"

He turns slowly to face him, eyes narrowed in confusion. "Another number was released earlier," he explains.

"That's a fairly regular occurrence, Finch."

"Yes, and it'd be more of the same except that this happened," he says, pointing to something on the screen. Reese frowns at him before leaning closer to look.

"Wait, is that...?"

"Yes," Finch sighs. "Over a dozen numbers followed it, presumably for the same person."

"Have you ever seen anything like it in the past?"

Finch shakes his head. "Never, it's very perplexing. Even if it's another case of identity theft, this is ridiculous." He rests his hands on the keyboard before him, frowning rigidly at it as if it had wronged him in some way. "I need to figure out which is the original identity, then go from there to try to figure out _where _the potential victim or criminal is."

Reese nods, tilting his head as he peers at the computer screen. "Alright. I need to meet Lionel, but it can wait. What do you need me to do?" The slight smile on Harold's face makes the disruption in his plans worth it as they get to work in determining who the numbers lead to.

"Two separate people, two sets of numbers," Finch says about half an hour later, sounding more confused than Reese had ever heard him. "This is unprecendented, Mr. Reese. An identity thief team?"

"Perhaps one out to kill the other?" he presumes, staring down at the information they've compiled.

"Perhaps," the shorter man hedges. Something about it not adding up for him, he starts looking through Reese's findings. "Wait," he says, coming to a stop on one page. "Winchester. That name..." He brushes past Reese, spreading out his own notes until he finds what he wants. "Both have identities with the last name Winchester." He puts the pages side by side, looking up with a strange expression on his face. "Presumed dead various times over the past five years... I think these are their real names, Mr. Reese." He taps a finger against the files, shaking his head. "Siblings, possibly?"

Reese looks down at them as well, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Sam and Dean Winchester."

"So it would seem." Finch sits awkwardly, peering back at his computer. "I will see if I can find any other identities of theirs. When I have more information, I'll let you know, Mr. Reese."

"Oh come on, Dean," Sam sighs, sounding snappy. "It's not like we get to New York that often, can't we just..."

"No."

"If it was a classic rock or car museum, you'd be all for it!"

"Hell yeah," Dean grouses. "Not some artsy crap like this." He waves around a flier for the MET, growing more disgusted the more pouty Sam becomes over it all. "C'mon, man! Other hunters seriously couldn't handle this?" Despite everything they'd been through, he's still weak to _that_ particular look on Sam's face, groaning as his convinction wavers. "Dammit."

Little brother's face lights up reluctantly and he grins cheekily at Dean. "Dammit what? Does that mean we're going?"

"Shut up or I'll make you eat this flier," he warns, glowering at him as he slumps back into the car. "Get in or I'm leavin' you here."

A bit later, after fighting their way through traffic- which seriously, give Dean demons, succubi, anything but New York traffic any day- they both peer up, up, up at the impressively sized museum, Sam's face lit up in a way that it hasn't since long before he'd been in Hell. Dean's lips twitch upwards too as he peers over at his brother, the look in his eyes _almost_ making this whole thing worth it. "Come on," he urges, getting out of the car quickly.

With a sigh and wistful pat to the dashboard of the Impala, Dean follows, relieved for the reprieve to stretch his legs before he realizes just how much walking this will entail, Sam determined to see everything he can while they look for anything suspicious the museum has to offer before it closes. "Damn, Winchester, what _did_ you get yourself into?"

As they enter the huge building, they're not aware of the camera that clicks to life, following their every movement.

"I've never seen anything like this before, Mr. Reese," Finch says with a tired look in his eyes. "And I've seen a fair amount in my years doing this. More numbers were issued overnight, with various names but they're all the same two people. Sam and Dean Winchester."

"What are these two up to?"

"That's the million dollar question," he muses. "Simple identity theft, at the beginning, growing amounts of credit card forgery starting after 2006, many reports of impersonating federal officers. One of them was convicted of murder in St. Louis, then was presumed dead, but he resurfaced over a year later, this time involved in a bank robbery. The other was, for a short time, a student at Stanford but left when his girlfriend was mysteriously murdered in an unexplained dorm fire. They've basically lived a nomadic life. I don't even know where we should begin, trying to sort this all out."

"Start at the beginning, I guess. Ignoring the other identities, what information do we have on Sam and Dean Winchester?"

Finch goes through his files quickly before reading off one, "Their mother was killed when they were small- Dean four years old, Sam six months. Their father seemed to lose it afterwards, going from town to town throughout the rest of their childhood."

Reese frowns further at this, leaning over to look at the files himself. They read together, quietly, before Finch turns away from the monitor to do some more research. "It sounds like a really unhappy childhood, Finch."

"That it does, Mr. Reese. After the bank robbery, they seem to have kept a low profile until presumed dead again, both of them this time."

"This is nearing soap opera levels," he comments with a fair amount of disdain at how complicated this will make things to sort out for them. "And?"

"Files were tampered with here," Finch mumbles, sounding almost confused. "Some were lost, others completely deleted. After this, information on the two became sparse and hard to sort out. There were various sightings of them through the years but nothing substantial. This brings us to here, with little information outside of their childhood and school records for Sam."

Reese scrubs his fingers over his face, and across his hair. Sometimes this job seems more trouble than it's worth. Saving people, easing his conscience over his shaky past, is the only thing that keeps him going sometimes. "Alright. Where do we go from here? They don't have a homebase I can scope out..."

"This is true," Finch concedes. "Luckily I know where they're staying at while they're here."

It's an unimpressive motel, the electricity barely working enough to operate both of their phone chargers at the same time without starting a fire. The only thing it really has going for it is a bored guy working the desk, jaw in his hands as he watches some mindless show droning on behind the desk, who will _never_ look twice at their credit card _or_ ask too many questions about what they're doing while they're there. And the other is that it's really, _really_ easy to leave behind. After all, no one in their right mind would willingly stay there _too_ long.

New York's hauntings are special. Sam and Dean usually leave it to whatever hunters are in the area but sometimes, like now, they have no true choice but to venture to the coast and check things out. So, despite Dean's griping and complaining, Sam's check of MET had had its merits- they were able to rule out haunted paintings, artifacts, or anything else of that nature. Best to their ability, anyway.

Dean, however, has quickly lost interest in the fancy smancy abstract art- which looks almost as well-thought out as most of baby Sammy's fingerpaintings years and years ago- and is standing off to the side, looking longingly out of a window at the bright blue sky outside. He can just imagine cranking some Metallica, roaring off in his baby, the wind in his hair and his brother glaring at his side- well, not every dream can be perfect, huh?

Speaking of glaring little brothers, he turns, instantly honing in on where he's standing, peering down distastefully at a dark smear of purple and blue that fades into brown at the bottom. He wanders over, past bored and into _torment little brothers _territory. "What's wrong, Sammy? Remembering your own Picasso days as a kid?"

He rolls his eyes, trademark Sammy, and points a thumb at the painting. "There's something off with this collection," he says, knowing immediately that that means absolutely nothing to his brother. '_They all look like something I threw up after the last bender,_' he can almost recite word for word.

"Like what, the price tags?"

Sam doesn't look thrilled- but really, when does he ever?-, choosing to ignore his brother's comment. "This signature on the picture," he says, pointing to it. "It looks... off."

"How so?"

"Every picture done by this one artist, he's signed his name in black ink." Sam points it out to Dean, who squints at the small scribble in the corner before nodding slightly. "This one, though," he muses, turning back to the picture he had been examining so thoroughly, "is signed in red ink."

Dean shrugs. "Maybe he ran out of black?"

"Or it's a knock off," he shrugs.

"Oh yeah, sure," Dean mutters as he wanders off to look at the others. "Who wouldn't want to copy _that_?"

"I heard that," Sam tells him as he follows him away from the painting, his old lecture-y voice appearing. As much as Dean hates it, he almost is glad to hear it just because of the normalcy behind it. "It's a priceless piece of art, Dean, people would pay ridiculous amounts to house something like this. Or do ridiculous things."

"Whatever you say, Sammy," he mumbles, well aware that there's no arguing with Sam, especially over the merits of weird blobs of paint on a canvas that people try to pass off as art worth millions of dollars. And somehow usually succeed. Pondering his old idea to see what some random abstract thing _he _could throw together would go for, he walks back down the hallway, taking in the architecture of the building and leaving Sam to look over the artwork without a distraction.

Reese's eyes trail sharply across the motel, an eyebrow raised curiously. It's a roachtrap, basically, and surprises him. With the amount of identity theft these two seem to have done for who-knows-how long, that they'd stay in such a cheap place seems strange. _If they don't use the money for top of the line things, then what's the point?_ He scopes the place quietly from a distance, watching the traffic in and out. "I'm not seeing anything out of the ordinary yet, Finch, but our two haven't appeared yet either."

"Alright," the older man says quietly from the other end. "I'm still running scans on my end; there are more identities being unearthed by the minute. These two have been all over with various aliases from various walks of life. It may take longer trying to figure out _who_ they are than how to save or stop them."

"Unfortunately, the two things might be hand-in-hand..." Reese muses, looking through a small scope at the motel.

"Precisely, Mr. Reese. I'll keep looking." They fall quiet once more, the muted sound of Finch's typing the only noise on either end. Before long, a classic black car pulls up outside of one of the rooms, loud music quickly cutting off as the driver kills the engine.

"I think they've just arrived," Reese says quietly, ducking back further out of sight as he watches them scan the area before entering one of the rooms towards the end of the building. "Suffice it to say reports of their demises are greatly exaggerated."

Finch makes a small humming noise. "Mr. Reese, I was doing more research into their childhoods, trying to figure out why this lifestyle of theirs began." He pauses, typing some more. "I've found something." There's a weird tone in his voice that immediately attracts Reese's notice, leaves him waiting impatiently as he watches the two men enter the motel..

"Natural causes?" he asks when there's a lull in the conversation, still watching them through a broken blind showing just a sliver of what is happening inside of the room. They appear to be talking spiritedly about something, the shorter of the two with his feet up on a desk as he relaxes in a chair, watching the other pace back and forth.

"Hardly. Mr. Reese, she seems to have died in a fire."

The pieces click together quickly and he breathes out, "Like the girlfriend from Stanford?"

"Yes. Both fires were deemed caused by faulty wiring, but it's awfully coincidental," he muses, pouring over his computer screen. "The father died only a few years ago too, a year after the girlfriend."

"Another fire?"

"No, this one was deemed a heart attack but..." He pauses, rereading it. "His body disappeared before they could determine much more than that."

Reese makes a non-committal noise before training his scope back on the building. He enjoys a challenge as much as the next person but this case just seems to be one ridiculous thing after the other, each more difficult to sift through than the last. _And I thought my life was odd,_ he muses with a small smirk. "I'm going to stay here and keep an eye out, make sure nothing strange happens. I'd like to get a look into that motel room, but they seem almost as paranoid as you do, Finch," he comments, spotting one of the brothers peering out from the blinds, pausing momentarily when a car pulls into the parking lot, reverses and drives back out, the person behind the wheel obviously lost on these roads.

Finch doesn't wise to the bait, though Reese can just envision the look on his face. "Very well, Mr. Reese. I will place a call into the detectives, see if they have any further to add on these two. At the least determine what the police had to say about them. They seem quite… infamous."

"Yes they do," he muses before falling silent to let Finch work his magic. Something about the two intrigue him- they're far from his typical case and he's not sure what's going to come next. Although cases like that can be dangerous in their mysteriousness, he also enjoys them because they're usually more exciting than the run-of-the-mill kidnapping, burglary, attempted murder type case that he and Finch usually have to get to the bottom of.

Almost an hour's passed when his phone vibrates in his pocket and he stares at the display, answering quickly. "Yes, Lionel?"

Fusco pauses for a moment, still easily startled by him despite the months they've already spent working together, "Yeah so Mr. Glasses had me looking into this new case you both have pulled. I'm just finding more of the same of what he's found so far, lots of stolen identity reports and strange murders, disappearances, thievery. Stuff goin' back for years, and some thought that they had an accomplice, John Winchester who I'm guessin' is-"

"Their father."

"Yeah. Like, a multigenerational thing or something. No one could ever get to the bottom of it though, everyone close to catching them either died or looked the other way or disappeared." He sounds a bit freaked out and Reese prepares himself for a way to ensure that Fusco won't turn tail and run on this. They've come a long way since when Reese had first blackmailed him into this role, turning him from a dirty cop to a sometimes reluctant assistant, but when the shady happenings are also affecting police departments and even FBI agents around the nation, well, he almost doesn't blame him for balking. _Almost._ Before he can even think of what to say to stop Fusco at the pass, however, the detective beats him to it. "What do you want me to do now?"

"Why, Fusco, you're not even trying to complain your way out of this one? I'm proud," he says, actually meaning it a little bit, before getting down to business. "I need you to get Carter involved, go through whatever else files you two can get your hands on. I want as much information on these guys as I can get, so I can try to determine who wants to kill them."

"Alright. I'll be in touch."

"You do that," he mumbles, ending the call on his end before turning his complete attention back on the hotel.

"Anything, Mr. Reese?" Finch asks a few moments later, just as their hourly check in time ticks past. Finch's punctuality had become something he had grown accustomed to, depended on for a lot of things.

"No, they seem to be content inside of the hotel room for now. I'll keep an eye out here unless Fusco comes up with something. I almost doubt that he will, though. These two probably have even more secrets than they have aliases."

"It wouldn't surprise me," he says grimly. "There are a couple reports that I managed to unearth a few minutes ago…"

Reese hums. "And?" he asks, surprised when Finch actually seems reluctant to share what he's found out.

"It's obvious someone's tried to bury some of them but there are depositions by Dean Winchester, the older brother, from years back following one of his arrests, claiming that he and his brother are… hunters. This came from one of his arrests where they both were lost by a female agent who claims they overwhelmed her and she couldn't stop them."

Reese blinks. "Hunters? They don't seem like any hunters I've ever seen," he comments, peering over at the well-kept black car only a few feet away from where he stands in the bushes.

"Not in the traditional sense, Mr. Reese. They claim they hunt… ghosts, and monsters. Family business, they call it."

This stops him where he stands, his eyebrows going up into his hairline. He's been through many branches of military, all over the globe, and has lived in New York longer than he hasn't; the things he's seen would make anyone think twice about certain things… but this still floors him. "What?" is all he can vocalize. Finch gives him a minute to collect himself, let his brain start to work once more, and then… "Those reports about his father being their accomplice, and now this saying that… ahem, _hunting_, is a family business."

"Yes. Either mental illness runs in the family, or…" Finch pauses. "Mr. Reese, John Winchester was an automobile repairman before his wife's death. There are no reports about him having any kind of mental episode prior, nor mentioning anything about _hunting. _They were simply an ordinary family before the fire."

"So he either had a psychotic break following her death, or..." He peers once more at the hotel room whose windows he can just see from this angle. The blinds are now motionless, no one looking through them anymore.

"Or they've thought up quite the long-term story to make the FBI think they are insane."

Either way, Reese's interest in looking inside the hotel room grows by leaps and bounds. He places another call.

"Why do I always get stuck with the jobs so boring that you don't want to do them?" _Ah yes,_ there's the Fusco Reese was expecting- complaining and reluctant to actually do anything outside of grunt work at the plush comfort of his desk.

"You just answered your own question, Lionel," he mumbles, peering at the hotel room. "These two are sneaky, you're going to have to keep a close eye on them. But make sure not to get caught, they may be dangerous."

"Fabulous," he sighs, staring at the hotel. "These are those guys you had me look up where strange things happened to police after murders and bank robberies and all that, right?"

"One and the same," Reese nods. "I need you to keep an eye on them, report anything mysterious to me and make sure to notify me when they seem to be heading back. I'm curious to see what they've got going on in that room. It's probably big, seeing how reluctant they've been to leave it all day."

It was true, he had scoped out the building all day long, finding it strange how _if_ they left only one of them would go at a time, and never very far. He didn't even have to leave the parking lot to see where they were heading when they did go- Dean Winchester left for ten minutes to get some food from a diner down the street, and Sam Winchester left for an even smaller amount of time to a library on the other side of the street, bringing back what looked like an old, worn down book about the size of War and Peace. He's almost itching to get inside so when they finally leave together, long after the sun had set and Fusco had been settled in his car in a darkened tavern directly across the hotel, waiting patiently, he waits until they're long gone and Lionel has peeled out after them a minute later, taking care not to get spotted like Reese had warned him to do.

Melting out of the shadows like he had been trained to do, he uses a well-worn credit card to jimmy the lock, easily gaining access to the room. Old hotels like this, it's usually more complicated than it needs to be to actually use a lock pick kit, and so he doesn't, relishing the opportunity to keep his many different lock picking skills fresh. Glancing left to right once more to ensure no one is watching, he ducks inside and quickly shuts the door behind him. That part of the mission complete, he takes a deep breath and coughs, surprised by the different scents wafting around him.

It smells like someone went a little crazy with seasoning and herbs, which makes no sense, as there's no kitchenette in these rooms. He's about to step forward when his sharp eyes collect a long line of white powder in front of the door, another under each window sill, and even some on the floor in front of the bathroom door. Shells hang in front of the door and there are strange mesh bags full of different things scattered around the room. He makes a face, rethinking the whole insanity thing after all, when he catches sight of the wall just full of newspaper articles, some old and some new, lines linking one thing to another, nonsensical notes scattered along the pages. "What is this?"

Fusco sighs as he follows the two Winchester brothers- right to an art museum. It being nearly 1 AM, the building is closed but they don't seem to mind, parking outside of it and sitting there in the dark, talking lowly to themselves. "Great," he mumbles to himself for the tenth time. "Sitting targets in the city at the dead of night, just begging any ol' druggie or robber to come say hey…" His paranoia growing, he pulls his gun out and checks it, loads another few bullets into it just in case.

He jerks, almost dropping both gun and bullets, when he hears a car door slam and looks up in time to see the two rush up to the museum. Jaw dropping, he watches as the taller one goes at the door with what looks like a lock pick, his brother playing lookout. "Aw c'mon!" He's about to get out of the car and place them under arrest when they finish, sneaking inside. "Oh, just great, just great." Pulling himself out, he shuts the door quietly behind him and sneaks in after them, holding his breath and trying to listen to determine where they'd gone. His gun held in front of him, he follows the soft sounds of their footsteps, through one display and the next. They stop at the abstract art section and he pauses behind a pillar, watching.

"Blood, huh?" the shorter brother is asking, shaking his head. "Man, I tell ya, these cases get more and more screwed up the longer I do this."

"Tell me about it," is the grim response. "Come on, let's get this over with before the security guards come back around."

Fusco looks around, wondering why whoever's manning the cameras haven't notified anyone yet on the intruders, or the alarm hadn't been triggered.

"Yeah, no idea how long it'll be till they realize the security system was disabled."

_Of course,_ Fusco realizes, his eyes widening as they both pull out pocketknives and unsheathe them, quickly slicing through one of the paintings. He's just about to step forward, yell out and stop them, when a large gust blows over the room, slowing the progress of the two vandals and pushing Fusco back all at once.

"Faster, Dean," the younger of the two grunts, still sawing furiously at the painting. It almost seems like now all of a sudden the painting is somehow protected, hanging half off of the frame but neither man able to cut any further with their knives. "Dammit! Where's the salt?" As Dean scrambles to get something from a nearby bag, Sam waits and Fusco tries to figure out what the hell's going on, almost reluctant to leave his safe place, should another strange gust of wind come out of nowhere and threaten to drop him onto his ass.

"Here," Dean yells, throwing the salt over and Sam just manages to catch it, scattering it in a circle from one side of the painting to the next, stopped only by the wall. What exactly that's supposed to accomplish, Fusco has _no_ idea, but somehow it breaks the hold of _whatever_ on the painting and Sam resumes slicing through it like it's nothing, a presumably priceless piece of art quickly gone from the frame.

Fusco blinks, a little disconcerted, as the brothers quickly grab their things and leave, painting in hand. It takes him a minute before he realizes- _Oh yeah, I'm supposed to be following them…_ He takes off at a run, just spotting as they peel off, probably back towards the hotel. Back towards Reese. He can't leave the scene of a crime, so all he can really do is type a quick text. _Heading your way!_

As soon as he sends that, he turns to find a security guard racing towards him, looking like he's about to kick his ass. "Hey, hey! I'm with the NYPD! I saw your robbers, alright? Calm down, let's see what we can do, huh?" He quickly flashes his badge, to re-enforce his words and, as the security guard relaxes slightly, so does he.

Reese notices Fusco's text just in time, quickly relaying what he can read off the walls- and from a strange, beaten up old journal that he spots on a nearby table- to Finch before exiting the hotel room as easily as he'd entered, making sure that the locks are back in place as they had been before he'd left. He's just ducked back behind the bushes when that black Impala roars past the hotel parking lot and he wonders briefly where Fusco's disappeared to, no sign of the man close behind them. He gets back into his own car once they're far enough away to not notice him and follows, face blank as they lead him towards the outskirt of town.

Finch pipes up then. "Mr. Reese, I looked up some of what you relayed to me. Some are from prior crimes, murders and disappearances, and some are more current. They seem to range from almost thirty years ago to just a few days ago. I believe some may be from their father, and some may be theirs."

Reese had also noticed something else in all of the jumbled up writing and strange articles. There had been reports mixed in all of the rest. Reports of ghosts, chupacabras, wendigos, many creatures born from nightmares. It all makes no sense to him, and he's not sure it ever will. "I'm getting a different feeling from this, Finch. I'm not sure if they really are behind all of these crimes." Just a feeling he had had, most of the articles were more about their victims and not the crimes themselves, as if the men responsible for organizing the wall had been trying to pinpoint a _reason_ for the crimes and not keep record of the actual vile acts themselves.

Places, names, persons, things had been scribbled in the journal, and he knows that Finch is right- some of it had been their father's words, with talk about life following the boys' mother's death. Raising two boys and trying to keep them safe from, as he had put it, _things in the dark that the average person refuses to see._ As easy as it would be to pass it off as the insane ramblings of a broken mind, there had been something behind each word that just didn't fit with that profile. Each journal entry hadn't seemed like the work of someone setting out to hurt people, each one instead fitting a theme- saving people. And the horror the man felt when he failed. Or, when his words disappeared and were taken over by two different sets of handwriting, how his sons had felt when _they_ failed.

Finch stays quiet for a long moment before finally saying, "I see, Mr. Reese. Then what do you think is going on?"

He hesitates, not wanting to come right out and say it. Finch is a man of science, he most comfortable behind known algorithms and data, numbers and facts. Add in that his right hand, the man he depends on to do the physical part of their rescue missions, believes that these guys' story may be true, that they do travel the continental United States to rescue people from ghosts and urban legends, and… well… He takes a breath, his dark eyes following the car closer than he can physically. "I think there may be some truth to it," he hedges.

Finch releases a slow breath. "I see," he finally says. "So you believe they are innocent of everything I've found on them."

"Not all," he says slowly, thinking over the list of offenses. Traveling extensively like the journal claims that they have to from one case to the next would take a sizeable chunk of funds- especially with gas and food prices what they are currently. So it doesn't really seem like it would be a very far stretch that everything other than the identity theft and credit card fraud is somehow something they'd been wrongly accused of.

Finch, to his credit, doesn't outright disagree with his assessment. In the months that they'd worked together tirelessly to stop crimes and likewise save people, he'd come to depend on Reese's ability to read people and situations. He had also seen enough messed up things to know that some people just really _do_ have bad luck when it comes to authorities, even though everything that the Winchesters had been accused of seem a little extreme for them to have _not_ done it. However, it would be easier to stomach Reese's opinion if not for the claim of monsters and ghosts and who knows what else.

"Finch?" Reese finally asks quietly.

"Yes?"

"Trust me."

Another long silence and Finch sighs, turning back to his computer. "Very well, I will look more into some of these crimes instead of looking for more reports. If I find anything on who might be targeting them, I'll let you know."

The relief in Reese's voice makes him glad for his split second decision as he mumbles a quick thank you, their communication becoming slow and brief from then on. He's just passed an intersection when the brothers pull off, heading through a small thicket of trees. "They're making their move," he tells Finch, knowing that follow here would be _much_ too suspicious. He slips from his car and begins to follow on feet, listening for voices or anything out of the way.

"I think I'm onto something," the virtual recluse tells him. "A few years ago, before the records mysteriously disappeared, there were rumblings that the younger brother had killed a man."

"And no justice came of it," Reese guesses quietly, his sensitive hearing catching a stick snapping beneath someone's boot. Turning, he begins following them from a safe distance. "So maybe it's revenge?"

"It's possible. I'm looking into the family, but I'm not sure where to start- most are dead. It appears this family has had some _very_ bad luck as well," he comments inanely, eyes quickly scanning an extensive list of deceased. "How gruesome. At least four of them have died from bear attacks."

"Some people just aren't cut out for camping, I guess," Reese finally says after a lengthy, awkward pause. He can't help but remember a passage from the journal that he had found, going on about a creature named the Wendigo who could leave behind wounds similar to bear maulings; he can't help but wonder if there are others who can cause similar wounds. Shaking his head, he focuses on the path ahead. _Now is not the time to get paranoid,_ he thinks, despite how easy it would be to believe all that that journal had said- there had been very few clues that it had come from an illogical mind, to be honest. Scattered along reports of the various monsters were honest entries about watching two boys grow up in this life, sheltering them from the worst of it... There had been no madness in those entries, just regret and sadness that they'd never grow up normal, happy little boys with mother and father to help mold and shape them into the young men they could've been.

As they inch further into the woods, he follows them at a distance, unsurprised when they seem hypervigilant, every small noise having them track a highpowered rifle in circles around them until they're satisfied to continue on their way. His only piece of luck is that the forest they're in is dense enough that there are plenty of trees and bushes to hide or crouch behind.

As he follows, he catches snippets of conversations from the two men, wryly amused. "Now, Sammy," Dean says as they walk through a group of trees, "are you sure you can part with this delightful little piece of artwork? You won't want to have a moment of privacy to say a prayer for it or something?"

"Oh, haha," the younger brother mocks. After a moment, he shudders. "I'll be glad to get out of this city once we're done here. I keep feeling like someone's watching us."

His humor dissipating like someone'd doused him with water, Reese pays more attention. "Sam Winchester just noted that he feels like he's being watched, Finch. It may be me, or it may be someone else."

"Mm hmm, just keep a close eye on them." Finch sounds distracted, obviously still up to his eyeballs in records and reports. "Steve Wandell has a daughter, Marie, but she apparently is in a hospital in California with a broken labia. I doubt it's her, unless she hired someone... but..."

"You would think with something as personal as this, she'd want to see it through herself if able." As Finch responds in agreement, Reese ducks behind a group of trees, forced to stop as the Winchesters end up in a clearing, Dean dropping what looks like a magazine on the ground. As he cases out the area and pulls out some supplies from his jacket pockets, Sam unfolds the painting from within painstakingly, taking one last look at the abstract piece.

"Say goodbye, Sammy. This thing is toast... some very colorful, fugly toast," his older brother says with a smirk as Sam rolls his eyes at him, Reese not even needing to be closer to realize that that's what the other man had just done. He shakes one cannister over the paper, white crystals scattering all over the place, a cold wind immediately blasting through the area, as if in response. All three of them look around from their different vantage points, the two Winchesters appearing as unsettled as Reese feels. "Come on, Sam," Dean urges, the younger man quickly spilling what looks like lighter fluid all over the yellowed paper. A fast flick of the wrist and soon the area is lit with a thin, yellow glow before he drops the match onto the ground, the painting quickly going up in flames.

Before it can finish completely, a powerful force comes out of nowhere and slams into both brothers, sending Sam into a tree close to where Reese is crouching and Dean into a group of bushes clear off on the other side of the clearing. It disappears as quickly as it'd arrived, however, leaving the two brothers straining to get back to their feet. "Ow," Sam mutters as he touches his throbbing skull.

"You alright?" Dean asks, breathing through his nose as he struggles to get his arm free, branches digging into his sleeve like thorns and scraping into his skin with each movement. They're almost up and ready to stumble back towards their car, Reese quickly slipping through trees to get out of their way, when another sound comes that makes them all freeze: the sound of a gun clicking almost as loud as an explosion.

"Finch, I think they're here," he says into his earpiece. Nothing comes, no response, no feedback, nothing. He frowns. "Finch?" Shaking his head, he pulls the worthless device from his ear and pockets it, grimacing. _What timing, losing my only link to Finch right _now. He turns his focus back on the clearing as a surly looking man slips out of a group of trees, a pistol in one hand and a rifle almost more impressive than the one in Dean's hands aimed at Sam.

"Back away," he warns Dean, waving the pistol at him warningly, not moving the rifle away even an inch. "This ain't got anything to do with you."

"As long as you're aiming a gun at my brother, it does," Dean says, stepping forward.

"_Dean_," Sam hisses, not wanting his brother to do anything stupid here. He looks around Dean and stares at the other man, a look of recognition on his face. "You're Carl Manning." When Dean looks confused, he explains quietly, "Steve Wandell's former hunting partner."

"Oh. _Crap," _Dean hisses, his body only tensing up more, if possible.

Finch struggles to regain communications with Reese when there's an electronics failure, both Reese's phone and handsfree device dropping as if they'd never been there to begin with. Having absolutely no luck and knowing that the seconds are ticking away quickly, nothing good possibly coming from the loss of contact, he places a call. "Lionel."

"What now, Mr. Glasses?" he sighs into the phone, sounding tired. "I'll have you know I've just spent the last half an hour with a very frantic curator wonderin' where his priceless painting's gone-"

"The painting is of no importance now," Finch cuts in. "Our mutual friend is in trouble."

"Of course he is." There's a short pause, Fusco breathing impatiently on the other end. A car door slams on the other end. "Where?"

He sneers, keeping both guns aimed on them. "How'd you know that, kid?"

Sam looks remorseful, like he's drowning in guilt as he steps around a frozen Dean, ignoring his sharp inhale of breath. "I researched Wandell, anything I could find on him- his family, his friends, the case he was on at the time. You were in town too."

His hold on the weapons falter as he looks harshly at the younger hunter. "Yeah. I was. It coulda easily been me, you know." His grip growing more sturdy on the guns, he stares Sam down. "Sometimes I wish it was. What's the point of me livin' when I ain't got nothing- no wife, no kids... just bitterness and anger? Steve, he had a daughter, a wife. A good life. He deserved better than he got, taken out by some possessed hunter? Especially John Winchester's son?" He scoffs, laughs. "I remember readin'... your father became somethin' of a legend, you know? He managed to fight off ol' Yellow Eyes' control and you couldn't even fight off a basic black?" He paces around them, still not lowering the guns. "Your father would be so ashamed."

"Shut up," Dean says warningly, his dark eyes flashing as Carl passes by close to him.

"Or what, boy? What do you think you can possibly do right now? Kill me too?"

"We won't," Sam says quietly. "But please, you need to hear my side of it-"

"I don't need to do anything," Manning says, pressing the rifle against his neck, the cool metal on his skin making him shiver. "I know plenty about you. You nearly caused armageddon, let loose thousands of demons... was the Devil's _vessel._ Why you're back now, I have no idea, nor do I care. I just know that whatever brief peace his daughter got when she heard you were gone was too short lived. I'm gonna help make it permanent, though. It's the least her daddy deserves."

"Almost there," Fusco says, speeding along the highway that Finch had directed him to. He's just within sight of the copse of trees Finch had said Reese's signal had disappeared in when his car abruptly sputters and dies. "What the!" Easing it to the side of the road, he slaps his fist against the steering wheel, somehow unsurprised to find that his cell phone is also lifeless. "Well, hell."

He pulls himself from the car and sighs, wiping at his forehead. "Fine, then. Stupid technology." Kicking his tires on his way past, he heads for the trees. "Here I come." Despite his appearance, he's not a police officer for nothing, satisfying himself with how quietly he makes his way through the path of trees and bushes. He catches sight of Reese standing outside of a clearing, watching three men- all with guns- arguing among the wildlife, and inches towards him.

He's only a few feet away when Reese holds a hand up, startling him- "Quiet, Fusco," he says faintly, not even turning around to look as the portly man stews over not being able to sneak up on him. "Did Harold call you?"

"Yeah," he whispers at Reese's elbow, shaking off the disappointment. "Nothing electrical is working around here. My car even died nearby. Someone must have a really heavyduty scrambler or something."

"Or something," he nods, wondering if it's somehow the after effects of that strange creature that he had seen that sent both Winchesters flying before disappearing entirely.

"So what's the game plan?" Fusco asks, staring at the three men in the clearing, their conversation going on undeterred only feet away.

"Move on my mark," Reese whispers, keeping things close to the vest as always and pretending not to notice as Fusco flinches at the lack of details.

"What's your-" he's in the process of asking when Dean takes a chance, diving at Manning and sending him crashing to the ground, the rifle scattering far into another group of trees. The two scramble for awhile, the pistol between them, as Sam struggles to get a good shot at a non-vital part of Carl's anatomy. "Dammit!" Fusco hisses, only repeats when Reese goes running and kicks Manning sharply in the skull, causing his head to snap back as he falls to the ground, unconscious.

Sam freezes, gun shifting from Carl to Reese and back as Dean scrambles back to his feet. "Who are you?"

"I'm-" he's in the process of saying when a shot rings out, the ground at their feet shattering into hundreds of pieces of dirt and sod.

"Nobody move!" a female voice snaps, a teenaged girl slipping out from near where the rifle had been flung earlier on.

"You're Steve's daughter," Sam intones, his hand wavering slightly as one of his worst nightmares is realized.

"And you're his killer," she says, gun aimed on him. "Move away from Carl now." Sam and Dean exchange glances before slowly backing away, leaving Reese near the downed man. "You too, stranger," she orders him, a certain kind of bite in her tone that says she could lose it at any moment and slip off a shot.

Reese eases back carefully, leaving his eyes on her. "Ok, we're away. Everything's going to be fine. Drop the gun," he tells her calmly. "You and your friend can leave, no harm done." He sees out of his periphial vision as Dean opens his mouth, like he's about to protest, just to get elbowed sharply by his brother. Huffing out a deep breath, he falls silent.

"Carl didn't want to do this, you know," she tells them, keeping the rifle on them even as she leans down to check the older man's vitals. "He just wanted to drop it, said too many years had gone by... Steve wouldn't want you squandering your life on vengeance, he said. Enjoy what's left of your teen years, make your daddy proud. That's the best you can do." She shakes her head. "But he failed to recall one thing- that's _not_ what daddy would've done. Years back, Momma was seriously hurt by one of those possessed demons and he killed it, no second thoughts, no nothin'." She stares at Sam. "The Winchesters are demon bait. Before you started back on the road, demons were barely a blip on the average hunter's radar. Suddenly you all join the fun and people're gettin' possessed and killed every other day by these things, and no one knows why. But now we do. It's all y'all's fault." She cocks the rifle, her lips twitching upwards slightly. "I'll be the one that saved us all." She breathes heavily. "No one else is gonna get hurt because of you two."

Fusco watches on anxiously as she nudges the form at her feet, Carl slowly groaning and coming to. "Great," he mutters. "Just what we need. Another madman with a gun..."

Reese is coiled, waiting for any opportunity but she leaves the Winchesters to a still off-balanced Carl, her rifle easily aimed right at him. He can tell if he makes one wrong move she'll have little to no qualms doing away with him, her fingers steady on the gun. _She's out for vengeance, no matter who gets in her way..._ He stares her in the eye. "You don't want to do this," he tells her softly. "Killing demons may be one thing..." He hesitates, slightly disbelieving that he's even having this conversation, using it as a bargaining chip to save his life, and the lives of those around him. "...but do you think your father would be alright with you killing humans in cold blood?"

She doesn't flinch, barely blinking as she levels the gun at his chest, lips twisted in a snarl. "Don't try to guilt trip me into releasing you all. It won't work. I want _justice._ I want Sam Winchester to hurt like my father did." She limps forward and Reese notes the weakness, the medical reports that Finch discovered being proven to him.

"You ran away from a hospital to see this through, didn't you?" he asks, voice still low. Calm. "You're still recovering."

She snarls at him. "It doesn't matter! Don't act like you care!"

Sam takes over here, stepping forward until she whips the gun in his direction, grip unwavering as she glares at him. "Marie," he pleads, hands held in front of him. "Please. I understand wanting, needing vengeance, but all this will do for you is make that hole inside of you bigger and bigger, having blood on your hands. It won't bring your father back. Trust me, I know." He glances over at Dean, who is tense and watchful, looking like he's ready to tackle Sam out of the way if need be. "Marie... did he ever tell you what to do in case something ever happened to him?"

She glares, her lips trembling subtly as she takes a deep breath. "It's none of your business," she snaps, but a visible change comes over her face, her resolve weakening as she shudders, the gun lowering just a few inches. It's enough as Dean and Reese move together, Reese forcing the gun from her grip while Dean keeps Manning at bay.

Before anything can be done to make the situation even worse, Sam steps between the two sets of people, his arms raised. "Listen," he says. "I don't want to make things any worse for you, Marie. We'll all step back and let you leave... right here, right now. You can go back to the hospital and finish recuperating, or whatever else you want to do... I just hope that you'll accept my apology and understand that if I could, I would go back and stop what happened to your father. But I can't, and I have to live with that for the rest of my life."

She shakes her head, hands looking oddly small and empty now that the guns are held by Dean and Reese. "If I ever see you again, Winchester..." Her wet eyes dropping to the ground, she turns on her heel and limps away, Carl following a few minues later.

There's an awkward pause as the four men stare at each other, Fusco quickly losing his nerve and walking towards the pile of ash nearby. "What was this?" he asks curiously, nudging it with the toe of his shoe and watching as leftover remenants flutter here and there. "Looks like someone burnt some paper or somethin'..."

"I'm curious about that also," Reese mutters, looking over at the hunters.

"You were following us," Dean deduces, somehow unsurprised and undisturbed by the prospect. He could sense a fellow- not a hunter, exactly, but a...- protector in Reese, and it keeps him from completely going into feral defense mode, turning to Sam who is watching Fusco with an uncertain grimace. "So you saw what we did with the painting."

"You stole it," Fusco comments, coughing when the wind changes, some of the ash shifting and clinging to his face, getting up his nose. "Gah!"

Reese's lips twitching, he turns back to the Winchesters. "Stole it and burnt it. Why?"

The speech that follows- about ghosts and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night- seem wildly rehearsed, as if it's been said a million times, _the family business,_ and for a brief moment, Reese can picture these two and their father discussing how best to try to explain such wild things to the average person. Similar to how he feels whenever he tries to explain the madness that Finch had had created with the computer that could foresee any crime, could even communicate via texts and understand human commands like Harold had made a computer program and a pet all in one.

Fusco looks like he wants to run screaming into the woods or be ill or both, but Reese holds his own, having garnered most of this from what he'd seen in the hotel room and learned from Finch, tilting his chin back towards the destroyed painting. "And that?"

"Forgery," Sam offers. "We realized it when more and more deaths were piling up." Reese looks confused at this, trying to figure out how he had missed this, why Finch's machine hadn't pieced it together similarly. "The original painting had been stored in the artist's home, he refused to sell. Some had more of a problem with taking no for an answer than others, though, and he was killed for the painting. The forger was especially brazen... when he created the first copy, he actually used a bit of the artist's blood in the signature along the bottom."

Dean takes over as Sam wanders over to see what exactly Fusco is doing, not wanting the middle aged police officer to somehow mess up what they'd carefully done not that long ago. "So the blood of the deceased bound his spirit to the painting. Any time someone came by and praised the artwork, he would attack and kill them." He pauses and looks over at Sam with a grin. "See, Sammy, I saved your life by not letting you stick around long enough to actually show appreciation for that particular fingerpainting."

**As **Sam rolls his eyes at his brother's braggadociousness, Fusco joins the conversation once more. "And that girl, what was all of that about? You killed her father?" There are rare moments where his police sense tingles and Reese figures this'll be it for the year.

"Sam was possessed," Dean snaps, immediately growing defensive once more. "A demon killed that man, not my brother. Back off."

"Calm down, Dean. He has every right to ask, he's just doing his job." Sam waits while Dean wanders off, mumbling something that doesn't sound too positive towards police officers, and smiles apologetically. "Can I ask you a question though?"

Reese licks his lips, shrugs. "Sure, why not."

"You admitted you've been watching us. How come? Not to mention I get a sense you knew we were being targetted... how?"

Fusco too looks curious at this, glancing from Reese to the Winchesters. He knows a precious little about what Mr. Glasses and Reese does, but the how has evaded him for the most part- he thinks it'd probably make him work faster if he knew _how_ the two mysterious men figured out all that they do, but Reese just smiles. "I have an associate who is quite capable at figuring out when someone is being threatened. Then he sends me out to try to keep them safe. A little like you two do, I imagine," he says, peering between the brothers. "Except my fight is more on the side of flesh and blood."

The brothers exchange glances, Sam nodding slightly. "Well, good to know while we handle the supernatural side of things, there's someone out there trying to do the same for the rest."

Reese smiles mirthlessly, motioning to Fusco and ignoring the detective's look of disappointment at not learning anything new about what Reese and Finch does. "Well, I have to go meet up with my partner. I'll tell him to keep an eye out for you in case you're ever back in town."

The Winchesters exchange a glance before Sam laughs awkwardly. "Yeah, thanks."

**Reese **sighs as he wanders back into Finch's homebase, glancing around at all of the books covering the walls. _I wonder what ghosts_ this_ place contains..._

Finch greets him with a piercing gaze as he awkwardly walks over to him, looking him over. "Well, you look no worse for wear. The communication devices went down again?"

Reese nods, pulling his phone out. It had begun working as soon as he'd left the clearing, his opting instead to just wait until they were face to face to explain everything that had happened, knowing that it'd probably be a hard sale for the scientist-focused man. "Yes, but they're working now, Finch." When his employer tilts his head, expecting more, Reese finally begins to explain what he had seen, how things had gone from weird to complicated.

Finch barely blinks as Reese continues talking, his face impressively blank. "Well, then." He turns back to his computer, things he understands and can explain away, once the story concludes. "Isn't that something."

Chuckling, Reese leans against the desk and watches as his friend keeps an eye on the programs flashing on the screen, also relieved at the prospects of returning to the ordinary kind of cases they usually deal with and leaving the supernatural to the Winchesters.

Dean stares out through the windshield of the Impala, his gaze thoughtful. "Y'know Sammy, I never thought too seriously about if there was someone like us out there doing what we do on a non-supernatural scale. I wonder if there are anyone else like them out there."

"It's possible. Kind of helps, huh?" he asks, smiling faintly as they pull away from New York City, heading onto the next odd occurrences needing looked into.

"Yeah," his older brother agrees. "It does."


End file.
